Mother of Cold Rocks
by Redone
Summary: In the house of Sith apprentices, for years an old woman has taken care of their household as well as their souls...


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Mother of Cold Rocks

by Red

An old lady has been taking care of the household of Sith apprentices for a long time. She remembers Darth Maul, her current master is Darth Vader, and now there are talks that Vader's son will soon be added to the household... This is a pre-AOTC story.

Disclaimer: A ny similarity with Lucas' characters is absolutely intentional, so if you happen to find some recognisable characters, well, I suppose you should return them to Mr. Lucas.

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Rating: G

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Feedback: Please!

It's only for a moment that I can sit down to catch my breath, because there's still so much to do. Master ordered to have another suite ready and stocked by the time he arrived; and mind you, stocked with items and clothes that were clearly not for him. There's rumours that he'll be bringing a son with him.

What son, I asked old Matilda the other day in the kitchen, he's never had a wife or a family, how can there suddenly be a son? But she only knew there was a rumoured son, or at least one that was called a son; Matilda's neighbour's sister has a flyboy son-in-law in the fleet, so I suppose they get some news of what's going on up there. Because we never get to know anything, although we are the master's own household.

I remember when I was younger, and Emperor wasn't Emperor yet, there was another boy. A younger, sweeter boy. How different he was from our present master! He was with us ever since he was a child, and I loved him in a way, like a son I never had. I used to call him "boy", but ever since the other one came, also a mere "boy" in my 200-year-old eyes, I've made the distinction by calling the first one "my boy". I remember I used to watch over his sleep: he often slept restlessly, haunted in his dreams. Sometimes I wondered what could such a young boy have done to be visited by the spirits of the dead. Then I would quietly shove a handful of aromatic herbs into the vent system, to help him, and I would sing softly to him, or even cradle him in my arms when he seemed to need it, until he relaxed into a deep sleep. In the morning I'd pretend nothing happened, of course, for it's none of the servants' business.

The other one is also troubled in his sleep – I often wonder if it is their way, something in their magic that brings this curse upon them. I tried to help him too; but the next morning he came and thanked me and then said never to do it again. Oh he's slick, that one. He has grace and polish and manners and all, but he's so closed. I mean, he's pleasant with us, but you never know what goes on in his head. Not like my boy. Of course, when he's angry he doesn't throw things around or smash them, the way my boy did. But I still don't like him, he seems so secretive.

I am called Mother Kesiag. It is the name that my boy gave me. He always called me "old hag," until that day when he woke up after that dreadful injury. I had sat vigil at his bed for three nights, I was weary and pretty well indignant at boys who waste their health and life away at some war games. So, at his "old hag", which sounded rather weak and whispery, I snapped, "And don't you address me like that, boy. I have a name. I am called Oumm Kesiag." He gave me a surprised glance from those golden eyes of his, chuckled and said, "Very well, so be it. I shall call you Ummu-Gheezyak," or something like that. He spoke with an odd throaty accent when he was young, and it occasionally showed even later. But I didn't mind having my name twisted like that – at least he tried. Indeed, from that day "old hag" disappeared from his vocabulary, and he started to call me "Mother Gheezyak", because, I understood, Ummu was "mother" in his native tongue. In fact, I learned from him later that the variant he had made out of my name actually meant "Mother of Cold Rocks". Soon the whole household called me that, and I was proud of the name. So much so that when the other boy came and asked what I was called, I said "Mother Kesiag." I felt it was something of my boy that was now perpetuated in this house.

Strange things with names in his house. We never knew the boys' real names. Officially, we were to address them as "Mylord". We thought, what strange names they have, in our world gods are addressed as Lords, but then someone said that it was not a name, it was a title, which made it even weirder, for they were no gods, that we knew for sure. Then, when my boy didn't come back and the Other took over the household, again we had to call him Mylord. The name was the same, only appearances had changed.

The wireman is again coming downstairs for some bits and parts of his. We've had him in the household ever since the other boy arrived. The first day when he arrived, he looked around and ordered huge renovations and turned the whole house upside down. That's when they put all those wires and blinking lights and technical things all over the house that hum day and night and make you dizzy. And the air's had that dusty, oily smell ever since. The boy's personal rooms, the Inner Circle it's called, are something I've never seen before, I don't know if he has those ideas from those strange starships of his. I sure think he should spend more time with two feet firmly on the ground, would do him good and us too.

Anyway, that's when the wireman got employed here, he and his apprentices take care of all those thousands of knobs and wires. The new boy also brought half of the fleet's doctors and his own servants, errandboys, aides, a whole army of them. Now when they come it's like a swarm of Dantooine scavenger locusts, and they fill the whole house so that we've had to convert some art rooms and galleries into living quarters.

So there is the rumour about the master's son coming home. There was this talk once before, and when the master arrived he was alone. And it seemed that his soul was thirsty, he hardly slept and paced along the hallways for days and nights. Matilda ran to her neighbour and came back with the news that, apparently, the master's son had run away from him. Now tell me, where's the sense in it? What good boy would run from his father, hurting him so that he almost loses his blessed soul? Where is his sense of filial duty? Then when I went to clean up his dining room I saw the master stand by the window stare at the stars. I told him that perhaps it was wise not to show that he wanted to have his son back, youth are very stubborn, they do everything the other way round. So when you pretend you don't care, maybe he'd return. He only said I had been misinformed.

But I suppose he must have taken my advice, because a couple of times that he dropped in here over the past year there was no mention of any son. The last time, however – it was about a tenday ago – he gave these orders to have these rooms ready. So we have been running around getting things done, and a tiring time it has been. They all keep running to me with the most trivial questions: where to put this, what should be done with that? But I'm old, how could I know what pleases a young man these days? I only know what is proper and what is not.

Now, I must get back on my feet. It is about time, they should be here any minute, and I have to keep an eye on everything.

I hope master has got his son back this time. Maybe he would find his peace then.

~Cantus finitus~


End file.
